The Cold Stab of Loss
by kellyanne
Summary: To feel the cold stab of loss is the worst way to live. When the only thing worth living for is gone, why bother going on? This is the tragic tale of a Cowboy and his Irishman...


The Cold Stab of Loss

By Sweet Anne 

**Rated**…erm….PG-13, just because of the theme

**Disclaimer**…I don't own newsies…isn't that kinda obvious??

**Author Notes**- Alright…I'm re-uploading this chapter because…well…this isn't a one-shot fic anymore!! All you lovely reviewers persuaded me to continue…and I am!!! Yeah!!!! 

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Part One 

The bunkroom was empty. All the boys were downstairs, getting the shit beaten out of them as Race conquered them all in a game of poker.

 It was cold and dark inside the room, the silence broken by the sound of my boot making the floorboards creak. I almost jumped at the noise. I had been thinking about him again. I hadn't even realized that I had entered the room until my damn boots snapped me back to reality.

It's hard not to think of him, I guess. There was something about him that I couldn't help but think of. It wasn't something on the outside, though. There was nothing wrong with his outward appearance, don't get me wrong. He was one of the most attractive men that I knew, but I wasn't interested in that part of him. It was in his eyes, the things I loved the most about him. His soul was in there, but I was the only one who he let see it. Those steely eyes of his always softened when I was around and, for the first time in my life, I felt important. I wasn't that kid who had been thrown into the Refuge more times then I'd had had birthdays or the little brat who would stoop as low as to steal food from a kid no more then seven. I was cherished. I loved that feeling.

I don't know why I should be thinking about the good times. Those are over. The only things that will meet his beautiful eyes now are the worms that will slowly pick his bones clean. I can't stand that thought and I can't help but fall onto my bunk, hating the way it smelled…like him.

Everything smelled like him. My bed did, my clothes did…I did. I say it's because I was always around him and had taken on his scent. That's not it. I know it isn't. The smell of fresh rain came from him holding me close and letting me cry. I can't believe how many times I did that, sobbing into his shoulder after dreaming about my mother, dead, and my father, rotting in some jail cell the size of my bed. 

I can't understand why things aren't allowed to go well for people like me. Every person that I've loved is dead now, including him, the most important of all. Maybe God wants to spite me for being a street rat. Maybe I fucked up so bad once that I'm being punished. I have no idea why everything went wrong, but it did. 

I remember the tension between Brooklyn and Queens. It had been there before the strike, but only as a shadow, lingering at the outskirts of our lives. After we beat those newspaper bastards, though, the fighting began. One fight over, a new one beginning…the classic tale of being a newsie. I don't remember ever **_not_** fighting someone or something, but there had never been anything like what went on with Brooklyn and Queens. Newsies died everyday, and the blood staining the streets became as frequent a sight as rats in the gutters. 

I never thought that he'd be one of the newsies to loose his life, though. He was the strongest, the bravest, the leader. He had been the one to teach all the other newsies to fight. It was strange, though. He led them right into Queens and fought bravely. I had been right along side of him, my fists raised and a knife up my sleeve. 

We had won. Everyone that had taken part in the fight knew we had beat Queens. The only one that hadn't surrendered was One-Shot, the leader of Queens. His knife had been up his sleeve, too, but found its way into Spot's stomach, digging through skin and muscles and hitting something that made blood ooze at an unearthly rate. Ripping the knife back out took Spot's insides with it. He collapsed and One-Shot turned to run. He was killed before he made it three steps ahead. 

I didn't move. I couldn't comprehend what had happened, the irony behind it. Only the night before, Spot and I had been lying together in his private room in Brooklyn, his hair tickling my bare chest. He was on his stomach, an elbow propping his head up so he was looking at me. We used to do that a lot, just look at each other.

"I'm gonna' die in dis war, ya know," He whispered, turning away from me. I don't remember what I said, but he frowned and raked a hand through his hair. 

"The odds are 'gainst me. I've won too many fights in me lifetime. I'm gonna' lose this one."

"I won't let ya, ya hear?? I won't let ya feel the cold stab of loss. I've felt it too many times to let ya know what it's like."

He smiled and sighed. I heard what he meant in the sigh, what he didn't have the guts to say at that moment: _I'm still gonna die. I know I will and you can't do anythin' to stop it. It's fate._

I should have done something. I should have stopped him from going to that final battle. He wouldn't have let me stop him, but it wouldn't be eating away at me as much if I had at least tried.

A bolt of lightening flashed and the red curtains in the windows turned the room the color of blood. His blood. The blood that had coated my skin once I realized that Spot was lying on the docks, the insides of his stomach held in only by his hand. The pallor of his skin was haunting and I knew I'd never forget it. 

I held Spot in my arms, letting his blood turn my ratty gray shirt crimson. I couldn't hold back tears and I knew at that moment that he was going to die. There was no hope for him. 

"I told youse…Ise was gonna die…" Spot whispered, his breaths coming in uneven spurts that shook his body. My tears were pouring out silently now, and he reached up to wipe them away. I saw the wound that was slowly draining away his life, his essence, and I felt sick. 

His finger burned fire down my cheek as it fell back to cover the bloody wound. He was still fighting his inevitable death by trying to push his insides back where they belonged.

"Spot…youse can't do dis to me. Ise needs ya…" My voice trailed off when Spot coughed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, "I ain't strong unless youse is at me side."

"I…don't want ya to regret dis…I died because I was s'pposed ta. Just…remember…dat I love ya…Cowboy."

I wasn't strong anymore. My arms couldn't take his weight anymore and I laid him gently on the dock. His eyes were closed and I could almost fool myself into believing he was sleeping. He looked peaceful as long as I didn't look at that blood that had soaked his shirt black.

I'm alone now, still sitting on my bunk and watching the rain pound at the windows. I miss him more then words can express. I tried coping…but it's pointless. I've just lost too much in my life to have the desire to go on.

I reached under my pillow and pulled out the rope that had once served as a belt. After I stopped wearing it, Spot had joked that I wanted it to be easier for him to get my pants off. 

It was funny when he said it. Now it brings tears to my eyes.

I pulled a rickety chair from the corner of the room and stood on it, securing the rope and looping it into a noose. I had done the same thing years ago to make a lasso. Slipping the cold rope around my neck, I wondered if anybody would care that I was gone. Spot was all I had had in the world, the only opinion that had mattered. 

I took my cowboy hat from my head, tossing it down onto the floor, just to prove that I had been here, in this world.

"I'm comin' Spot," I whispered…and then I kicked the chair away.


End file.
